


Blackberry Muffins

by fracnkie



Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Self Harm, Suicide Attempt, Warning: Carmilla, but more description of blood than strictly necessary, in a sense?, the inherent romantism of talking about your feelings, think jonny in interview transcript 34/08/7012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:53:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24249103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fracnkie/pseuds/fracnkie
Summary: Usually, Tim and Jonny would have a shoot out for the last of whatever Marius had last baked. The problem is that Tim can't exactly find Jonny. He's looked high and low and only when he hears the sounds of violence does he have an idea of where Jonny might be.
Relationships: Jonny d'Ville/Gunpowder Tim
Comments: 47
Kudos: 301





	Blackberry Muffins

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to both my girlfriend and the stowaway discord for dragging me further into this fandom partially against my will, at least at first. It took me only a few weeks of listening to this band to write fanfic but I guess here we are.  
> Warning: D'Ville-typical ways of dealing with feelings of any kind.

The Aurora is huge, and what that meant is that if someone didn’t want to be found (and she isn’t willing to tell you) they likely wouldn’t be. Whether in the vents or the engine rooms or just about anywhere, it is relatively easy to just avoid people if need be. And if that didn’t work, shooting someone in the head enough times could wear someone down for a while if Brian isn’t in EJM mode. Because of that, Tim is having an awfully hard time finding their oh-so-beloved captain anywhere in the ship.

Admittedly, that is actually a bit weird. It isn’t often that Jonny tried to not be found. Normally he would be in his room writing, on the bridge trying to boss Brian around, down in the engines chatting with Nastya, or bothering any Mech that isn’t so busy they’d shove his body into a life pod for good measure. 

Tim checks Jonny’s room, checks the bridge, and chats with every Mech he comes across asking if they’d seen Jonny. Most answers were no, fuck off, I’m busy, I’m not his keeper, and probably murder. 

Tim swings down the spiral stairs that lead to the lower engines, boots clicking against the metal steps as he glances around the room. God, it is dark. The only real light is coming from where Nastya sat in the corner with a lamp and a soldering iron fixing… something. Still, with his  _ impeccable  _ vision, he can see the room is a relative mess. He isn’t going to ask about it but also knows that it is unlikely that Nastya is going to shoot him all the way down here. Maybe some other, less bloody, form of murder, but not shoot him so he can probably get away if need be.

“Have you seen Jonny?” he calls across the room. 

Nastya heaves a sigh and sets down the solder for a moment. Talking and working is not a good mix.

“No,” she answers, accent heavy with exasperation. “Why? What could you possibly need?”

“We were  _ supposed _ to have a shoot out over the last muffins that Marius made but I can’t find him anywhere,” Tim explains, swinging himself further down.

“Then why not just take the muffin?” she asks, twirling the iron between her thumb and forefinger. “If you don’t hurry then Ashes or Raphaella are going to end up taking it anyway.”

“Then Jonny will sneak up on me and kill me and that’s not nearly as fun.”

“Just blame one of the others.”

“You’re deflecting.”

Nastya groans and sets down the hot iron, foot tapping against the clanking metal hull. “I’m not Jonny’s keeper. He went planet-side, find him yourself.”

“Planet-side?” 

“For murder or something.”

“We’re five days away from the next stop.”

Nastya freezes and looks around. How long since she left the engine room? Tim watches the lights flicker on and off and a high-pitched hum comes from the body of the ship. Of what he can see of Nastya's cheeks, she has a flush of embarrassment.

“I don’t know where he is,” she says quickly. “Go somewhere else.”

“You’re lying,” Tim points out, eyes widening in surprise. “What did he do? Did he already steal the last muffin? No, you wouldn’t save his ass for tha-“

The soldering iron flies past his face, the still-hot tip catching slightly on his ear. He slaps his hand against where it hit on pure impulse, like crumpling when shot or flinching at a punch. He locks eyes with Nastya from across the room. She is drawn in, heavy bags under her eyes, gritted teeth, and the very, very uncommon sign of worry on her face. Tim doesn’t usually see that unless there is damage to Aurora or that one time they weren’t entirely sure how to extract Brian from a dying star. Seeing it on her face now, though bitten back like she is trying to hide it or calm herself down, is unfamiliar.

Tim takes that as a sign to leave and twists his way up to the bridge, where Brian is still sitting and doing his own work as if he hadn’t heard the whole interaction. If Tim is lucky, he hasn't. A quick glance at Brian’s switch as he swiftly moves past confirms that Brian is solidly in MJE and as much as Tim  _ loved _ when Brian is in bastard mode, he is very thankful he has the morals to not eavesdrop or gossip.

Now, obviously Jonny isn’t planet-side unless they had accidentally left him somewhere, which is unlikely unless he jumped out the airlock because Tim had seen Jonny yesterday and even less likely still because even when the good doctor was pushed out the airlock Aurora had at the very least said something. Plus, when Nastya had been caught in a lie Tim couldn’t help but think of that flickering as a snicker. He hates the fact that he is starting to speak  _ spaceship _ but he also hates that he is starting to get worried about where Jonny is in the first place. 

Halfway around the perimeter of the ship, Tim heard gunshots. Repeated gunshots. Since it isn’t coming from his own gun, the succession of the shots could only mean Jonny. Or Raph if it’s an “experiment” but Raph would probably just do that in one of her many labs, none of which are in this area of the ship. 

Tim follows the sound of violence to the med-bay, the very last place he had expected Jonny to be and maybe more expected Marius to be instead, but if Marius isn’t here he’s hopefully in the kitchen making something, or maybe sleeping if Tim is that unlucky today.

The doors to the med-bay are closed, the only indication that there is anyone inside being those blasted shots that echo through the metallic walls. Tim doesn’t bother to knock as he sets his hand on the scanner.

Jonny stands in front of a mirror in the corner of the room, left hand clutching the end of the sink so hard his knuckles were bone-white, shoulder up against the cold, metal walls, and a gun held to his temple. 

He lets off another shot that paints the wall he is leaning against in a fresh coat of blood, brain matter, and bone fragments.

Tim, despite himself and his newer instincts, lurches forward toward Jonny in a mix of surprise and a deeper worry that sinks into his bones and keeps him there instead of doing the reasonable thing and leaving Jonny to do whatever Jonny does with his spare time. Which, it seems, was either writing music or staring himself dead in the eye and shooting himself in the head enough times to coat the wall until it created a small pool of red on the ground.

“I thought we were gonna have a shootout,” Tim says with a fabricated pout, one hand on the door in case he needs to duck out of the way.

Jonny hisses, sucking air through his teeth as his shoulder and arm barely keep him from falling into that bloody pool on the floor. His left shoulder is soaked through. As he pulls himself up to barely, barely standing, he looks himself in the eye again through the mirror.

“Take the damned muffin” he snaps in a low voice, barely loud enough to echo back to Tim before Tim’s hearing is further blown to bits at the sound of another gunshot injecting a half-ounce of lead directly into Jonny’s brain, the prior gunshot barely healed. 

More blood drips onto the floor and onto Jonny’s shoulder and even some splattering on the mirror and sink.

“Marius is going to have a fit when he sees this,” Tim tries.

“Didn’t last time,” Jonny quips as soon as his neurons start firing.

Tim doesn’t want to care, at least not about Jonny. Tim has a lot of feelings but unlike the bastard, he knew how to express those feelings. Admittedly, those “expressions” are usually laced in lead, but his shots usually went off as stress-relief and not what Jonny does: shooting feelings until they go away. Now, usually, the thing to be shot isn’t himself and instead whoever had decided to ask the fatal question of “do you need to talk?” so this is… new. At least, to Tim it is new, but from how Jonny had said “last time” Tim very much doubts that as one of the longest standing Mechanisms Jonny has just decided to start doing this out of nowhere. The man is a creature of habit, after all. 

Against his better judgment, Tim walks further into the med bay, stepping heel-to-toe and careful to cause the least amount of noise possible. He stays just out of the way of the mirror, not letting his reflection alert Jonny to him getting closer and closer. Jonny lets off another shot, shoulder smashing into the wall and an iron grip on the edge of the sink that is slipping with the slick of blood. 

Tim takes the opportunity of Jonny’s body going slack, grip as lax as it will get on the gun, to lunge forward like a lion at its prey. His hand goes for the gun in Jonny’s hand and quickly flings it across the room, the barrel getting caught in between the closing doors, causing the propped door to make infernal beeping noises at the obstruction. With the gun gone and Jonny not quite alive enough to have any input on what his body is doing yet, Tim grabs his wrist and flings him away from the wall. Jonny drops toward the ground, body a dead weight as it slumps, no grounding feeling of the sink or the gun in his hand or his cold eyes staring back in the mirror. In his slipping consciousness, Jonny finally closes his eyes, head cracking on the cruel metal flooring and more blood and brains slipping out of the wounds that were finally given the reprieve they need to heal completely.

Tim finds himself straddling Jonny, finally letting go of the wrist he used to fling Jonny into the ground. Jonny is, thankfully and finally, unconscious. Probably will be for a while. Now it is eerily quiet in the med bay. No gunshots, no stupid banter, and no sounds of Tim flinging anything anywhere. The doors have given up the stupid, aborted beeping noise, though Jonny’s gun is still propping the door open.

He weighs his options for a bit. Honestly, leaving him here isn’t going to solve anything. As much as he kind of wants to know why Marius apparently isn’t going to throw a fit at the blood all over “his med bay,” he also doesn’t want to stick around for however long it is going to take for Marius to get back. Plus, he probably won’t get any muffins out of this and it was likely that if he doesn’t get into the commons quickly, Ashes or Raph are just gonna take it, or Nastya if she is feeling vindictive. 

With a quick apology thrown in the general direction of the ship since he knows very well it could decide to kill him if he is being an ass, he lugs Jonny’s not-dead body over his shoulder and walks out of the med bay, leaving a dripping trail of blood and brain behind him that he hopes to god isn’t going to stain his new jacket. He knows it was a lost cause, though, since Jonny himself is covered in blood. 

He doesn’t run into anyone on the way to the commons, thank his lucky stars, but once he gets into the commons himself he is met with the unfortunate smiling faces of both Toy Soldier and Marius von Raum. On the contrary, it isn’t so bad since a von Raum in the kitchen meant more baked goods to make up for the fact that there is only a single muffin left on the tray on the counter. The presence of the Toy Soldier is slightly worrisome but it doesn’t look like von Raum is letting it anywhere near the cooking and is instead chatting idly with it as it sits on the free counter space.

Well, they were chatting until Marius saw Tim carrying Jonny in a fireman's carry while he drips blood behind him. The Toy Soldier follows his gaze, keeping that jolly smile as it lays eyes on the bleeding not-dead body of its friend that hasn’t yet reconstituted. 

“Oh! Who Won?” the Toy Soldier asks, interest piqued.

“Evidently, me,” Tim humors, walking further into the room.

Marius’ eyes focus on the blasted out side of Jonny’s head, the blood coating his shoulder that was starting to dry, and the blood-soaked hand of Jonny D’Ville and decides not to comment. He gets slightly twitchy, locking his mind and eyes on the task at hand.

Tim sets Jonny down in one of the seats, surprisingly careful to prop him up so his head won’t flump forward and further crack his still-healing skull. Idly and slightly regretfully, Tim wonders if why Jonny acts so stupidly sometimes is because of the amount of self-inflicted brain damage, but he thinks better of himself both for the sake of the good doctor’s handiwork and how that is, admittedly, rather rude to imply. Instead, he walks over to that tray with the last muffin, contemplates it for a few minutes, and then sets the tray in front of the still not-dead D’Ville.

“But I Thought You Won, Gunpowder Tim?” the Toy Soldier questions. “The Prize For Winning Was The Muffin! It’s Not As Fun If You Don’t Get Your Prize, Right?”

“I changed my mind,” Tim huffs, sitting in a chair across from Jonny.

There is a loud clatter as Marius practically throws the cake tin in the oven. He grunts as he stands for the drama and claps his hands together to rid it of the flour that coats his fingers, both flesh and silicone. 

“TS, I need help with cleaning the med bay,” he says quickly, further cleaning his hands on his pants. “Come help me.”

The Toy Soldier salutes and hops off the counter. It marches out the door at a steady pace before Marius has even made a move to leave. 

“Tell Jonny that he has to make dinner now because I’ll be busy cleaning,” Marius says to Tim, tossing his apron haphazardly onto the counter as he tried to rush out. He is almost to the door when a bullet flies past his face. A warning. He freezes in place. While he can take the shot, it will take even longer to clean the med bay if he has to reconstitute.

“What do you know, von Raum?” Tim asks, his voice cheery and light. Not a good sign, not a good sign at all.

“Um,” Marius starts, trying to keep any apprehension out of his voice, “nothing, really.” He bites his lip and turns, leaning his shoulder on the open door frame. “Sometimes he does this. I don’t ask questions unless I also want to clean up my own blood and also reconstitute. I ask the Toy Soldier to help clean. It doesn’t ask questions. Jonny makes something I like for dinner to make up for it which was honestly a surprise when he offered but he said it was to “keep my big mouth shut” even though I think he feels bad but-” He swallows and starts tapping his right leg in impatience. “Don’t tell him I said this. I mean as much as you guys might think I would just psychoanalyze anything breathing or not, I know when I’m overstepping. Well, at least I care when I’m overstepping involving you guys.”

Tim considers this. Marius had asked maybe once about Bertie but had decided never to ask again when Tim didn’t give him a direct answer so maybe the “doctor” isn’t as… boundary-less as the good doctor.

“But…” Marius continues, “I did hear Nastya and him yelling last night when I went to the bridge. Brian was ignoring it but he went and told them to quit it when there was a power outage. Jonny stormed off after Brain came up and I decided to not go near the med bay because…” he casts his eyes to Jonny’s not-dead body, “I mean, this isn’t the first time and probably not the last.”

“Right,” Tim says, setting his wrist down on the table. The gun is still aiming in Marius’ direction, but somehow less threatening. “Go clean up this wanker’s mess and hope the ship doesn’t blab on you for mentioning Nastya and Jonny arguing.”

Marius pales slightly at the thought, but leaves nonetheless, boots clacking quickly away until they meet up with the steady march of the Toy Soldier.

So Tim is left sitting across from Jonny D’Ville who is taking a considerably long time to reconstitute with a plain-as-day blackberry muffin sitting inconspicuously on a tray between them. When Jonny continues not to wake up, though the wound is only half healed so maybe he’d just done enough trauma to warrant it, Tim decides to gently and noninvasively frisk him for weapons. There is another handgun in his holster and two harmonicas, one on his sash and one in his pocket. Tim takes all three and pockets them.

It takes 20 minutes of sitting quietly in the commons of the Aurora, only disturbed once by Ivy who turns right around when Tim’s gun is leveled at her mechanized brain. After those twenty long minutes, Jonny starts to wake with a pained groan. Just as soon as he came to, his breath hitches. He stiffens and seizes, eyes looking around frantically at the ceiling but not moving an inch otherwise as if he’s paralyzed. Tim slightly wonders if he is, if his mental functions are fixed before his movements, but that thought is quickly dashed when Jonny starts practically shaking but still trying his hardest not to move.

“What are you doing?” Tim asks, face pulling in with confusion.

Jonny jolts as if waking from a nightmare. Maybe he was. His neck snaps down and his shaking stops in one dead motion as his hand flies to his holster, then to the other. Finding nothing, he shoots out of his chair like a bat out of hell and puts his arms in a guarded, steady position. What is odd is that the position doesn’t seem like it’s ready to fight. It is down low and covering most of Jonny’s face and Jonny is continuing to back up, unsure of where he is as parts of his hippocampus continue to restore themselves until finally, finally, his back is against the wall and his much-too-pale skin is regaining color, a lot more color as he is flooded with embarrassment.

Jonny looks around the room. It is the commons. He knows the commons. He’s spent a lot of time here cooking and sewing and doing things where someone can find him easily enough with open doors and the clanking of the armory beneath it. He sees the baking supplies only half put away on the counters and the flour that dusts the floor and handle of the oven, and it is a complete mess but he can also smell the chocolate cake in the oven and he really needs chocolate now. And last he sees Gunpowder Tim, an expression of clear but guarded concern on his face that doesn’t quite reach to stain emotion into his damned mechanized eyes that make a knife twist in Jonny’s gut, but the worry is still written on his face as clear as day in a way that somehow hurts more as he swallows those stupid damned feelings and lays his eyes on the untouched blackberry muffin on the table that Jonny probably used to be sitting at, but at this point, it’s hard to remember what he was doing beforehand.

His hand feels crusty. His shoulder is still slightly wet. The hair on the left side of his head is matted with various fluids. He is missing both his guns and harmonicas.

As his breathing slows, or at least attempts, to a normal pace, he makes eye contact with Tim, who hasn't moved an inch since Jonny started to actually recognize the world around him.

“Never fucking do that again,” Jonny says in a low voice, his body relaxing into a more offensive instead of defensive position. “Do not move me when I’m dead. Do not take my weapons off of me. Do not even fucking  _ think _ about disarming me when I’m doing… what I was just doing.”

“Why?” Tim asks, face contorting in outward confusion. “All of those happen plenty when we’re killing people.”

“But not when we’re on the Aurora,” Jonny snaps. “Not when I’m-” he stopped short. His breath is still heavy and thick and caught in his throat. He doesn’t look Tim in the eyes. “I’m going to find Nastya.”

He turns on his heel and goes for the door, right past Tim who is not going to let that happen, not when he just dragged Jonny in here in the first place and not when he bothered to save that damned blackberry muffin. He doesn’t even know why he cares so much but seeing Jonny panic like that had twisted something in his guts and caught the breath in his throat as worry seized his windpipe. So instead of letting Jonny just leave to go find Nastya, which admittedly was a good idea on Jonny’s part, Tim grabs his wrist and holds it in a tight white grip. Surprisingly, that does stop Jonny very, very quickly. Quick enough to be concerning and Tim isn’t sure if Jonny is actually breathing until Jonny tears his hand out of Tim’s grip like it burns. He turns around on his heel to face Tim and jumps away, hands reaching for his empty holsters once again.

“Give me back my fucking guns,” Jonny spits.

“Are you going to go shoot yourself again?” Tim questions, though he was already extracting the guns from his own pockets to hand over.

“Why the fuck does it matter to you?” Jonny snatches both guns from Tim and, surprisingly, doesn’t point either at him.

“Newsflash, arsehole, people care about you,” Tim snaps, not sure why his jaw is tight and the words spill from his mouth like venom.

“Very funny,” Jonny says back, his voice a sickening monotone as he removes the clip from his gun and checked how many bullets were still left. The answer was not many. He clicks it back into place. “Like who?”

“M-mmmother fucker,” Tim tries, biting back the words that threatened what little remained of his calm in this situation. “Why is it so hard for you to understand that maybe some of us are worried about you when you decide to stand in front of a mirror and shoot yourself in the head enough times for it to take half an hour for you to reconstitute?! Why is it so hard for you to understand that when you wake up looking like you’ve been paralyzed that it makes people worry?! Why is it so  _ damned hard _ for you to understand that maybe, just maybe, I get worried when you back away from the table after waking up looking like someone is going to attack you when you know damn well that you can’t die and I have seen your severed head wink at me with a sense of ease, yet just me asking what you’re doing made you have a god damned panic attack!” He grabs onto Jonny’s arm, seeking anything that would ground him as his emotions spilled over the cracking dam that he held up so he wouldn’t go blowing up the Aurora itself in a fit of madness. “ _ Why is it so fucking hard for you to believe that maybe I fucking care that you’re okay?! _ ”

Jonny, to his credit, doesn’t respond. In fact, Jonny doesn’t quip, move, or even breathe. Tim scans his face and finds a lot more than he expected. Surprise, fear, and maybe something deep in there, pooling into his still-human eyes, in a form of oh-so-subtle softness that Jonny had always bit back like a rabid dog. Tim sighs and lets his hand drop with his gaze.

“Can we just,” Tim’s voice hitches painfully as a knife twists the air in his lungs, “talk about this? I care about you, god help me for doing so because I can’t believe that of all the people on this ship I had to care the most about the fucker who shoots his problems to avoid confrontation.”

“Like you don’t,” Jonny quips, though it sounds choked.

“No, you see,” Tim says lightheartedly, “I use shooting as an expression like someone who was saner would use paint. You, on the other hand, shoot all your problems  _ instead _ of confronting them.” He looks from Jonny’s face to the gun still in his hand. “And I would really prefer if you didn’t do just that.”

Jonny is quiet for a few moments but nonetheless holsters his gun. He looks Tim up and down like he’s sizing up a threat. He opens his mouth a couple of times and closes it just like a gaping fish. Tim doesn’t pressure him, doesn’t force him to talk, he just waits ever so patiently. Slowly, though, it comes to pass that Tim is holding Jonny’s forearm with his hand, then both forearms, and then suddenly Tim is slightly bent at the knee to compensate for height as he envelopes Jonny in a quiet hug. It takes a moment, but soon Jonny is burying his face into Tim’s chest and Tim tries not to wince at the knowledge that Jonny’s blood-matted hair is going to stain his shirt and probably jacket.

“It’s okay if you don’t actually want to talk about it,” Tim assures. “I just… I just need to know you’re okay. I care about you, a lot more than I’m really willing to admit right now. It hurts to know that you’re not okay so forgive me for trying to stop you when I find you’re shooting yourself in the head often enough that you have some sort of deal worked out with Marius over it.”

“That damn quack,” Jonny murmurs into Tim’s chest, but Tim can feel and hear the jovial little laugh that comes after. “Can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“He cares too,” Tim says. “None of us want to see you hurting and, well, I can’t go and fix whatever damage there is in that messed up head of yours, I want to make sure you’re not hurting.”

They’re quiet again for a good while. They both stand in the middle of the commons in a tight, comforting hug, breathing in tandem as Jonny’s mechanized heart clicks its steady pace, unaffected by whatever  _ emotions _ try to speed or slow its pace.

“Do you remember when you first saw me on the ship?” Tim asks, his voice lower and quieter than ever.

Jonny nods. “Walked into the good doctor’s lab and saw you sitting there, half mechanized,” Jonny remembers. “Almost made me want to, say, push someone out an airlock.”

Tim can feel Jonny stiffen slightly underneath him. Tim doesn’t remember it, but he’s heard from both Jonny and Nastya afterward, a few decades after anyone was worried about who may or may not have pushed the good doctor into the vastness of space. Nastya because she saw it and Jonny because he did it, despite what he may have told the others. 

Jonny remembers it clear as day and he wonders if that’s the work of the good doctor, remembering every single time he saw a new, young, dead body in that lab. He’d worked on enough mechanized parts by that point to know how to put one together almost as well as the good doctor. If she programmed some little sick part of him to remember the procedure he wouldn’t be surprised. By the time he found Tim, laying not-dead on that operating table, the little parts that made them immortal were already implemented and stuck in his almost-empty eye sockets. All that needed to be finished was the parts of Tim’s eyes that made them eyes. So after pushing a body out of the airlock, he slaved over those stupid, stupid eyes with Nastya and Ivy to make it so that if Tim had to be alive then at least he could see with the cursed things that brought him here.

And for all that remembering, it does him nothing as he melts further into Tim’s grasp. And for all that remembering it stings deep inside of him to know that he was still too late. So, despite himself, he hugs Tim back and starts to cry. Not loudly, no, he hates to make a show of it, but Tim still feels his shirt get wet as tears soak through. No, the first time he hears even the sign of a sob is when Tim gently places the lightest of kisses on the top of Jonny’s head and pulls him closer. Just a little, tiny, choked sound as emotions pool over. 

Tim doesn’t know why Jonny was crying. He doesn’t know why Jonny was blasting his brains out. He doesn’t know what any of them went through before the good doctor was violently removed from the ship. What he does know is that, while he can’t go back and fix the mistakes of the past, he can make sure that his family is okay. He can make sure that Jonny, the one who had tires so damn hard to make sure that everyone is at least together at the end of that, is okay.

Tim, unlike Jonny, isn’t completely emotionally constipated, so his quiet “I love you,” as they start to make apple and spice pork (von Raum’s favorite) isn’t so quiet that Jonny wouldn’t hear it. The kisses he places in Jonny’s hair aren’t so light they’re just a whisper. The gentle bump of their shoulders against each other isn’t rough but reassuring. And maybe Nastya isn’t as mad when she comes for dinner and sees Jonny’s hair is still bloody and maybe Marius isn’t much reassured when he sees Jonny hasn’t changed his clothes and maybe Brian doesn’t look Jonny or Nastya in the eye now that he’s on MJE, but what is reassuring is that everyone is okay. That, at least, is something within the control of the captain and the gunner as the whole crew sits down and enjoys food as a sort of mismatched family, even if all Tim was allowed to do was chop the vegetables and hug Jonny as he did the actual cooking.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me @fracnkie or @byron-von-raum on tumblr


End file.
